


Every Friday Night

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Character Study, Crowley and Feelings, Fluff, Gen, Hand Jobs, Humor, I promise there's a point to it eventually, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Crowley, Smut, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Honestly, boys. What are you gonna do to me that I don't do to myself just for kicks every Friday night?”</p><p>“Earlier, when you were confessing back there...what did you say? I only ask because, given my history...it raises the question... Where do I start...to even look for forgiveness?”</p><p>Out of all the many wonderful Crowley quotes, those are the two that have haunted me (mainly due to how sad they are). This will be chapter by chapter of exactly what Crowley gets up to, every Friday night. There'll be filth in at least a couple of chapters. Suggestions for characters you'd like to read him interacting with are very welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Witch

Crowley raises his head at the knock on the door. Surprisingly timid. For a moment he thinks it must be a lackey, interrupting his very clearly allotted Friday-night me-time, and his brows draw together in irritation. He closes his book, thumb marking the page. Says, "Mother?"  
There's a pause. Then, "Good evening, F-" the familiar voice pulls up short. Crowley's eyes narrow.  
"Mother..?" He repeats, suspiciously.  
"Well, are you goin' to let your own dear mum stand out here like _staff_ or are you going to ask me in like a civilised... well, I suppose you're no human, are you?"  
Crowley exhales his held breath. He sets his book to the side. "Come in, then." He says.  
  
He hates that they take their tea the same. He hates that they mirror one another's gestures and laugh at the same jokes and that if they weren't sworn enemies they might have been friends. He hates her for turning back up again almost more than he hates her for leaving in the first place.  
"This is nice."  
Crowley looks around. At the comfortable furnishings and the tasteful lighting and the antique Doulton tea service on its silver tray. "Is it?"  
"Yes!" Rowena nudges his foot with the point of one delicate green shoe. "Just us, here. Family."  
"We are _not_ family."  
"Darling. You still not going to let bygones be bygones? We could be such a team, you and I."  
Crowley shoots her a bleak look. "Stop, please. My heart's about to melt from all this vigorous warming."  
"Always so sarcastic." The dreadful woman has the temerity to actually look offended. "So rude. You're no too big for me to put you over my knee, you know."  
Crowley rolls his eyes. "I hate to break it to you, mother dearest, but I most certainly am too big - both literally and metaphorically - for you to put me over your knee. Literal or metaphorical." He added.  
Rowena's smile was sweet as acid. "Och, with all your big words all the while, my wee man."  
"Why do you always do that?"  
"Do what?" She blinks at him. Sounds honestly surprised.  
"Belittle me? In front of my subjects too, for that matter?"  
Tilting her head, something in her shrewd gaze softens strangely. "I'm your mother. It's what I'm for."  
"You do realise that this alleged aspect of your maternal role is entirely redundant, don't you?"  
Her puzzled face makes Crowley's eyebrows raise. "I mean, you needn't bloody bother! Do you think I don't know what they say about me behind my back? I'm their friggin' king, of course I'm a target - they're constantly looking to take me down any way they can, they hardly need _your_ help - it's a drop in the ocean. Lucky the Leprechaun, you've heard that one? Oh, I'm short, or I'm fat, or old, or - oh, a bit thin on top?" Crowley rolls his eyes derisively. "It's almost as though they've forgotten I can have any vessel I want. Hardy? Fassbender? Whoever or whatever is damn well flavour of the month. I could waltz in there and take anyone, easier than buying a new suit. If I wanted to."  
"And you don't want to, why exactly?"  
Crowley sniffs, scrutinising for motive. Her face shows only casual curiosity. He shouldn't say it, but... "Because this vessel wanted me."  
"He... what, is this some weird kinky business I don't need to know about?"  
"Mother! No." He can feel his own incredulous look of disgust, where with anyone else he'd have picked that ball up and run with it. His voice drops quieter and he hates how small it is. "He invited me in. Said he liked the company. The direction." He draws a horribly shaky breath. "Said I was his best friend." God, how pathetic. This revolting compulsion to spill his guts to this woman even though she's let him down over and over again.  
"Oh, Crowley." His eyes flick up, shock and mistrust at her using that name. Her expression is all too familiarly convincing. But her voice... "You said 'was'. Is he still with you?"  
Crowley shakes his head. "Karked it in 1969." He barks a bitter laugh. "The end of the summer of love. Completed the irony by winging up to heaven. Traitorous bastard."  
"Do you miss him?"  
"What is this, couples’ therapy? He was my vessel, not my high-school sweetheart." Rowena smiles, sadly and Crowley sighs, irritably. "Yes. OK? Laugh it up."  
"I didn't mean to be a horrible mother."  
Crowley blinks. Why is she so adept at this? At making her expressions look genuine? Hell, as much as he hates to admit it, he knows where he gets that particular thespian talent from. "Well then, colour me impressed - you're so good at it, you must be a natural."  
She nods, pressing her immaculately painted lips together. Her eyes look oddly glassy. "I'd like to... not be."  
Crowley's teacup, tiny in his suddenly clumsy hands, rattles in its saucer. He doesn't trust himself to look up. "I'm so sorry I hurt you, lamb. I'd give anything to make it up to you, believe me I would. But I know now I don't deserve that opportunity, so I think the best thing I can give you is..." Did she just sob? Crowley keeps his blurry vision fixed on the dregs of his tea. "I'll just go. I promise you'll no see me again. This time, you have my word as a witch. I mean it."  
"Wait." He senses her pause, even if he doesn't see it. The air hangs heavy. "Before you leave. Is there anything you want to tell me?"  
"I don't..." She's definitely crying. He can't look, the ratchet tension has turned his shoulders to stone. "I don't deserve to say it."  
His voice is too calm. "Say it anyway."  
"I love you, son."  
Crowley closes his eyes.  
He feels a gentle pressure around his legs. A weight against his knees. When he steels himself to look, sure enough, she's kneeling at his feet, hugging him around the legs like he can still somehow, after all these years, recall doing to her when he was tiny. Something thickens in his throat and he's not quite sure if it's vomit or tears. He only has to move his hand a couple of inches to pat her stiffly on the shoulder. To stroke that flaming hair that's so very familiar. A part of his history. A part of him. But that couple of inches feels much further: fathoms; centuries.


	2. The Squirrel

The knock on the door is unmistakably brusque. Crowley can almost feel the peevish resentment. "Squirrel?"  
"Yeah, s'me."  
Crowley's mouth quirks up into a smirk. "Password?"  
"Eat me, Crowley."  
Oh, he sounds pissed. "Tempting as the offer sounds, darling, how do I know it's really you, if you don't give me the password?" Crowley waits, head on one side.  
"You know it's me, asshole. Anne Marie. Those little cocktail cherry things. Nobody else knows about that. Now quit jerkin' around and let me in."  
"I'm afraid I really must insist." Crowley's voice is a smooth purr. He can actually hear Winchester's angry intake of breath from beyond the locked door.  
"You're a friggin' piece of work, you know that? _When_..." He pauses, starts again, the words all run together in his haste. " _When themoon hits youreye like a bigpizzapie_... OK?"  
Crowley doesn't bother to stifle a chuckle. Considering his love of karaoke, Dean's intolerance of Crowley's password system is amusing. "Don't leave me hanging, pumpkin."  
" _That's amore_."  
"Bravo." Crowley's never heard a less amorous _amore_ in all his days. It's gratifying. The lock clicks, and Winchester senior slips inside, looking flustered and tooth-grindy. "Was that so very difficult?"  
"Shove it."  
Crowley gives him a leisurely eyeballing. "Maybe later. Business first."  
"You got 'em?"  
"Squirrel. When have I ever let you down?" Crowley hands him the envelope, fat cream parchment, sealed with red wax. Holds it just out of reach as Dean goes to take it.  
"Crowley, I'm not kissing you."  
"Spoilsport." He smirks, unconcerned. "Can't blame a girl for trying."  
Dean rolls his eyes as he breaks the seal, pulls out the contents. He holds up one lanyard. "Wow. I gotta hand it to you. I'm impressed."  
Crowley's smirk spreads. "Oh, you know. They've been on hiatus since 2008 apparently. But I pulled a few strings. Very special occasion and all that." He squints at the dangling VIP pass. "Dare I ask: what's a Hootie?"  
Dean grimaces. "Trust me dude; you do not wanna know. Anyways." He shakes the other pass out of the envelope. "What do I owe you?"  
"Think nothing of it." Crowley waves a dismissive hand - feels a tiny guilty twinge of satisfaction when Dean ducks a little - "Consider it a favour to my bestie. And to the birthday boy."  
Dean nods, tipping the envelope. "Just one thing..."  
"Mmmm?"  
"There's only two passes. Aren't you coming?"  
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Am I invited?"  
"Course you are." Dean's voice has that dismissive gruffness that Crowley knows quite well. "You're one of the crew, man."  
"Hashtag, squad goals." Crowley beams at Dean's frown. "Admit it, you just don't want to suffer your brother's taste in music alone."  
"Well, there is that."  
Crowley nods. "I'll bring the sedatives."  
"I'll bring the earplugs."  
He'd always thought that people didn't really high five in real life, but apparently they do. Dean's smile looks quite genuine. This, Crowley thinks, is quite possibly what 'sharing a moment' is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Sam Winchester and anyone who's actually a fan of Hootie and the Blowfish :p


	3. The Moose

Crowley could materialise within these walls with ease, probably give the big lunk a mildly satisfying shock, but the warding he's put up is so very _almost_ correct that Crowley feels inclined to be generous. He casts an eye over the visible sigils, feels out the rest with his mind, the febrile thrum of magic just missing the intended mark: it's so _cute_. So, politely, Crowley taps his knuckles against the door. "Moose?"  
"Crowley?" His voice sounds wary. Crowley rolls his eyes.  
"I come bearing gifts."  
"Why do I feel like I should be quoting an ancient proverb at you right now?”  
Crowley leans against the door, altering a sigil into an angel-ward with an idle flick of his finger. “Don’t fret, pet. Egyptian, not Greek.”  
There’s the noise of a key turning in the lock. “They better be 'Mother of Dynasties' shaped gifts and not the 'concealed blade' variety."  
"Or you'll _what_?" Crowley briefly wonders if it's possible to sprain an ocular muscle. "Never mind, this isn't grade school. Let me in," a little smirk curls his lip, "or I'll take my priceless body parts elsewhere."  
The face that appears when the door opens showcases every nuance of mistrust Crowley has come to expect. "A bit less about your body parts, OK, Crowley?" Winchester junior stands aside to let Crowley slink past, eyebrows raised innocently. He shakes his head as Crowley flashes him a sly smile and makes a big show of reaching theatrically into the inside pocket of his jacket. Crossing his arms, Moose does that _thing_ he does of rocking back on his heels to make his preposterous bulk look even loom-ier: Crowley isn't intimidated. He's not even impressed: baby Winchester's got a cute enough face, but tall isn't his type and Christ, he's seen what lurks in that shaggy noggin and it makes even Crowley’s colourful backstory look like a fairytale... Moose purses his lips when Crowley retrieves the little parchment-wrapped bundle with a flourish: he doesn't look much impressed either.  
"Akhanatash the First. Golden Lily of the Sun Valley." Crowley holds it up to the light: a finger bone, still wrapped in shrunken skin.  
"Where did you get this?" Moose wrinkles his nose as he takes the bone from him. Crowley raises an eyebrow. "You know what, never mind."   
He ushers Crowley to the counter laid out in the centre of the room, a familiar sight, all piles of dried-up things and ceremonial blades, a creaky old tome laid out open at some serious-looking glyphs and a beat-up but modern notebook covered in handwritten scrawl. Crowley casts a critical eye over the set-up, sniffs, and surreptitiously moves a bundle of belladonna so it sits parallel to the rest of the ingredients. He clears his throat, pointedly. “So. Now I’ve helped you out. Again. Been the good guy. Again. Am I permitted to know just what this little conjuring trick is actually in aid of?”  
“We’re…” Moose regards him carefully: Crowley can almost see the cogs turning. “We’re trying to track down Lucifer.”  
_Interesting._ “Is that so? I thought that out of sight was out of mind with that particular thorny problem?”  
“Yeah, well… Having Lucifer out there, unchecked – it’s never gonna be a good idea. And…” Moose lets out a long sigh. “He deserves to pay for what he did to Cas and you.”  
_And to you._ Crowley regards him, levelly. “Oh, Samantha. You _do_ care after all.”  
Moose snorts. “Whatever, Crowley. Having Lucifer behind bars again is the best thing for everyone.”  
“I shan’t argue with that.” They have more in common than either of them want to admit. Both of them singled out for torment by the Morningstar. Both of them surviving that consuming burn for blood. If Crowley wasn’t so committed to hating the dumb bunny, he’d like him.   
"So, get this-"  
"Hmmm?" Crowley glances back up at Less Interesting Winchester, who is now paring off slivers of some white bark or other into the copper basin in the middle of the countertop. Moose indicates between the leather-bound grimoire and the notebook with a nod of his head.  
"The translation states that invoking the Mother of Dynasties - metaphorically, she's not gonna actually show up," he gives a nervous chuckle, "at least, I hope not - but this invocation will point us to where Lucifer will _next_ appear on earth. So not only will he not know that we know where he's been, we'll actually have the drop on him, too."  
Crowley watches him. It's almost sweet how animated he gets when he's explaining anything technical. He places the finger bone into the bowl. Crowley cocks his head. "And if you're sure you have a lead on that Hand of God..."  
"The Nehushtan, yes."  
"Then his ass is ours."  
“Dibs,” Crowley says. Moose flashes him a _look_ – he supposes it’s meant to be disapproving, but there’s something in there that says, yeah, he’d like to have a turn pelting the stocks, too. Crowley watches keenly as he strikes a match and holds it for a second above the bowl, his lips moving soundlessly, before he drops it in-  
-Crowley coughs out a lungful of smoke and runs a quick, exploratory hand over his face to make sure all required hair is still intact. Next to him on the floor, Moose winces and grimaces. "Was that supposed to happen?"  
Crowley peers cautiously over the edge of the table top, then stands, gingerly, brushing his jacket down. "I'd hedge my bets on 'no'. Don't get excited, let's see that text.” He takes the proffered notebook, now considerably soot-smudged, impatiently. “Who translated this?"  
"I did." He's trying not to look guilty. Crowley raises his gaze, exasperated, to the ceiling. Where there is now a small storm cloud gathering.  
"Fabulous. I suppose you just happened to have an Ancient-Thulanaic-to-English dictionary just lying around. Moose? Oh, _tell_ me you didn't use the Internet?" That sheepish expression speaks volumes. Crowley sighs. "I have literally no idea how this planet has lasted as long as it has with you two chuckleheads on it. Give me the book again." He scans the pages: Moose’s handwriting isn't actually too bad, but his frankly indecipherable translation is a flashing red light of a clue as to why they're witnessing the birth of Hurricane Dumbass over an Idaho motel breakfast bar.   
“Crowley…”  
“I know, I know, give me a moment.” The room is starting to vibrate in a rather alarming manner, a distant clamour like trumpets sounding a battle cry seems to be coming from within Crowley’s head instead of from without: a glance at Moose, experimentally covering his own ears with his hands, suggests he’s hearing it too. “Give me the grimoire.”  
“What?” He’s still got his ears covered, the localised storm whipping his hair around his face: it makes Winchester junior look more junior than ever. Just a kid, really.   
“The grimoire!” Crowley shouts, reaching for it, as Moose gamely battles along the breakfast bar and shoves it at him. “Te mari, kut Akhanatash.” The gathering hurricane whips the parchment pages back and forth: Crowley squints against it, raising his voice. “Ankh Akanatash, maay ph, ti sopes amek amun.” The wind howls with an almost human voice: Sam casts him an uncertain glance. “Nom pa per run?”  
“ _Akhanatash_.” The voice seems to come from all around them, formed of the storm.   
Crowley pulls a face and returns Moose’s glance. “I think she’s a bit cross with you,” he stage-whispers, before continuing, “Kor war en runpa?”  
“ _Ahp oyywe_.” The voice of the storm grates out.  
“Older than air,” Crowley whispers. The wind whips his words away.  
“Crowley…” Moose’s voice is urgent, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the edge of the counter. “We need to do something, now…”  
“Yatruk!” The hurricane screams, a sound of displeasure: Crowley grips the grimoire tighter as the pages flutter fit to shred. “Yatruk… ti sopes amek.” He raises his voice to a bellow. “Yatruk!”  
“Shit!” Moose winces, ducking his head as the furious winds stop abruptly and debris rains down on them from where it was whirling around the ceiling. Crowley picks a spring of wormwood out of his hair and grins. “What was-“ Moose’s face is a picture of disbelief. “You can _read that_? The original Thulanaic?”  
“Don’t you wish you’d asked me first?” Crowley shoots him a charming smile and he narrows his eyes. Crowley looks around the room. “Ooh. There’s no way you’re getting the deposit back on this one.”  
“Yeah.” Pushing his hair out of his face, Moose clambers to his feet. “I guess I better start clearing up.”  
“Mmm, you can count me out of that part.”  
“Thought as much.” His voice sounds resigned, but there’s no rancour in it.   
Crowley raises his hand, poised to click the heck outta there, but something pauses him. He hesitates, then: "Did I do good, Sam?"  
Moose casts him an odd look, then his expression softens. "Yeah. Yeah, Crowley, you did good. Thank you."  
Crowley nods, keeping his smile inside.


	4. The Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rude chapter.

He’d know that knock anywhere. Nobody else ever knocked on his door with such a measure of impatience and purpose. Still, Crowley can hardly believe his own voice when he asks, “Robert..?”  
“What’s with changing the locks, jackass? You wearing tinfoil hats these days too?”  
Crowley fumbles to open the door so quickly that his hands shake, but when he pulls it open, it’s all he can do to stand and stare. The figure on the threshold frowns, shuffling his feet, awkward and impatient. Crowley swallows. His voice sounds a lot calmer than he feels. "Didn't think Heaven could hold you."  
"You think Hell could?"  
"I think Hell would like to." It’s out before he can stop it. Bobby gives a quiet chuckle, just this side of embarrassed-sounding, as Crowley steps back to let him pass, watching his every move.   
He’s just the same. Same dreadful old ball-cap wedged onto his scruffy head, same plaid flannel over a faded red t-shirt, stretched across his broad shoulders. Same shrewd blue eyes, regarding Crowley with an answering curiosity.  
Crowley draws in a deep, steadying breath. “Robert… are you… _real_?”  
He can’t put a name to the expression that creases Bobby’s face then. His eyes narrowing, mouth softening, head tilting; uncertain. His voice is soft. “Real as anything, I guess.”  
“I mean… are you,” he raises his eyebrows. “Flesh and blood?”   
_That ain’t what you mean and we both know it_ , Bobby’s eyes seem to say, but his mouth doesn’t follow suit. He holds out a tentative hand as he nods. When Crowley takes it – warm, solid – he’s pulled into a hard embrace.

It’s everything. An avalanche. Crowley clings, shocked, lets himself be held up by a pair of strong, steady arms. It’s only when he relaxes into the hold that he realises that Bobby is shivering too, shaking as much as he is. “I missed you.” It’s muffled against the thick cloth of Bobby’s shirt, but Bobby hears it alright.  
“Am I hearing this straight?”  
“Darling, there’s nothing straight about it.” Crowley tightens his grip, fingers clenching on soft flannel. Pressing the length of himself as close as he can against the body in his embrace: not even sexual – although he can’t help the stirrings he feels – just the hunger to hold and to not let go. He feels as well as hears the shuddery exhale into his hair.  
“I thought… I guess I knew, I just…”  
“Robert… Bobby, I…” He clears his throat, starts again, pushing the words out: it’s easier when he doesn’t have to look him in the eye, can just breathe in the comfort scent of wood-smoke and engine oil and Dial soap. “When we were… first acquainted… I want to know that there’re no… hard feelings?”  
Bobby’s voice buzzes, warm in his ear. “What, ‘cause you manipulated me and duped me? Got your rogue reaper to drag me to Hell when my number was up-”  
Pulling back, Crowley looks at him. Holds him tight by the elbows because he doesn’t want to let go yet. “-do you _know why_ I had you brought to me?”  
His gaze is far too direct. “Yeah. I know alright.”  
Crowley blinks. Not the answer he’d been expecting, and he’s rendered speechless for all of two seconds. “I was never very… adept at expressing my feelings in a, shall we say, human-compatible way. Back then.”  
“Back then,” Bobby repeats. There’s a distinct edge of amusement to his voice. “Y’know, you don’t see a lot of what’s going on in the world, from Heaven. If I’m honest, it’s kinda like a Djinn dream, if anythin’. Wonderful, but…” Crowley winces, know’s what’s coming. “Fake. Until, o’ course, you do something that don’t sit right with Management. Then, oh boy.” His lips quirk in a half-smile. “That why you threw me in your dungeon? Hell hath no fury like Heaven scorned?”

“Something like that.”  
Bobby nods. He looks thoughtful. “I know what went down. With you and the boys. With Chuck. Hell, everything.”  
“Well, that certainly saves us a good few paragraphs of footnotes.”  
“So, what say you, we skip straight to the happy ending.” There’s a telltale gruffness to his voice that has Crowley’s belly turning somersaults, his hands big and warm and wonderful on Crowley’s waist. “How’d you express your feelings now, you ol’ devil?”  
Crowley peers up at him through his eyelashes. Standing still right now feels more like running down a hill too fast: you might trip; you might fly. “These days I’m much more hands-on.”  
“That so?” He’s not imagining that Bobby just pulled him a little closer.  
Crowley wets his lips. Notes Bobby’s gaze track the movement. Remembers, oh so clearly, their only kiss. Knows how obvious it must be right now, every ounce of him straining towards wanting this – desperate, but he doesn’t care. “Oh, absolutely. I can tell you all about it.”   
“I’d rather you showed me.” Bobby tilts his head, angling down. Eyes heavy-lidded. And he’s gorgeous like this; on the cusp. Time seems to pause and Crowley almost wishes they could stay like this forever, frozen on the brink of fulfilment, where everything’s promise and potential and disaster feels momentarily far away. And then Bobby’s lips are on his and it’s flooding back: the stiff brush of his beard, the firm wet plunge of his tongue, more masterful than anyone ever dares with the King of the Crossroads. Crowley moans. A stupid, weak, human sound. Bobby’s hands move to the back of his neck, the back of his head, fisting in his hair, angling him to Bobby’s touch and Crowley arches into it, hips pressing forward, finding his dear Mr Singer hard and ready, straining in his shapeless blue jeans.

“I always imagined rose petals and champagne.” Crowley smiles, wide, as Bobby chuckles against his throat, sucking another delicate kiss there as he pushes Crowley’s shirt roughly back off his shoulders. And Crowley’s not sure how he ended up the one on his back, but he’s not complaining when he’s got Bobby kneeling over him, tugging his t-shirt off over his head so they’re both naked, sprawled on the rug, and Crowley’s hands go to Bobby’s chest, map out the breadth and height of him, hard and soft and thrilling to Crowley’s touch.  
His voice is a lust-slurred mumble. “Nah. This is good. I like this.”  
“Better than a bed?” Crowley’s hands move to his hips, pull him in, rubbing them against each other: he drinks in Bobby’s groan.  
“Keepin’ it real.” Bobby bites his lower lip, rolling his hips and for a second Crowley imagines Bobby riding his dick, just like this, and a throb of arousal goes through him so strong that his vision darkens. “Least the floor’s clean.” His chuckle makes Crowley’s chest ache.   
“Let’s make sure it’s the only thing that is.” Bobby murmurs his agreement as he sinks down next to Crowley on the floor, head propped in the crook of his elbow. Looking at him. Direct and affectionate in a way Crowley is entirely unused to, so much that he flinches a little when Bobby reaches out his other hand, tips his chin up for another kiss. It’s too easy - well - the rug is soft, but the floor is still hard, uncomfortable and cold. But Bobby’s skin is warm against his, full length, touching, comforting. His hand is firm and sure around Crowley’s cock, jolting little sparks of pleasure that are building, merging, overwhelming. Crowley gasps, close already. “I’m not usually-“  
“I don’t care.” Bobby cuts him off. Presses lips to his again, an easy slow rhythm that has Crowley purring against him. It’s getting harder for Crowley to care either. Any front, any one-upmanship, is drifting away on the tide of this. He doesn’t need to impress here. He’s already enough. “Crowley… Hell… you feel incredible…”  
“You can…” _You can have me. Take me. Hurt me. Do what you want with me._  
“Shhh…” Crowley bites his lip, hips lifting as Bobby’s mouth moves to his throat again, along the curve of his jawline, against his temple. His lips brush gentle against Crowley’s ear. “Lemme look after you. Just this first time. We got all the time in the world for everything else; not like we’re gonna get any older now.”  
“Perks of damnation,” Crowley whispers, smirks at Bobby’s disapproving little headshake, and then he’s groaning again as Bobby takes him back in hand. He fumbles to reciprocate, his usual expertise thrown utterly off-kilter, blindsided by feeling. And Bobby’s dick is a smooth, hot weight in his hand. Thick and velvety: Crowley’s mouth waters, his own cock throbbing; he’s aware of every inch of his own skin, bare and electric-prickling with arousal.   
“C’mere.” Bobby’s voice gets rougher when he’s turned on, and isn’t that a turn-on in itself. He presses his forehead against Crowleys. Chest to heaving chest. The expensive wool pile of the rug feels prickly where it’s rubbing against Crowley’s hip; he can smell it too, somewhere there under the scent of soap, his own cologne, the bloom of their mingled sex-sweat. Every sense feels heightened. His ears pick up each filthy slick little noise, each hitching gasp, each endearment whispered just under Bobby’s breath, _fuck, yes, yeah, so good, don’t stop, Crowley, **Crowley**. _ His name from those lips feels right, this feels right, that big, capable hand working his aching hard-on feels _right_ and Crowley doesn’t want it to end, except he’s so bloody close now that there’s no holding it and he feels the backs of their knuckles brush where they’re jerking one another like the world is ending and he half chokes on his own helpless little cry as he spurts over Bobby’s hand, over Bobby’s hard cock, and perhaps that’s what pushes Bobby over too because he’s pulsing in Crowley’s fist, moaning his name over and over as he comes.

“Well. That’s wasn’t too bad.” Crowley’s pretty sure his smug smile could light a minor county right now as he rolls over onto his back on the rug. “Although I’m fairly sure I have carpet burns and I’m holding you responsible.”  
Bobby, still warm, still solid, still _there_ , snorts loudly at his side. He slings an arm out, worming it under Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley lets him. Smiles as he slides his fingers through the mess on both of their bellies.   
"Only 'not bad'?” His voice sounds anything but grumpy now. “You been angling to get me into the sack for years and that's all you got?"  
Crowley considers him. Dazed blue eyes and mussed curls, looking oddly vulnerable without his ubiquitous ball-cap. "Darling. The coitus was marvellous."  
Bobby's face crumples: incredulity and disgust and amusement and fondness. "I hate you."  
"I know." Crowley's smile is hidden as he settles his head against that broad bare chest. "Hate you too, lover."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my sole accomplishment of a very crappy day. Thanks fictional SPN boys for always being there to get me through.


	5. The Demon

Incantation completed, Crowley wrinkles his nose as he pours the thick concoction in the flask he’s holding over the mess of herbs and powders in the bowl on the table. Nothing. Yet. He puts the flask down, saunters across the room and taps his fingertips gently against the door. "Meg?"  
The immediate answering cacophony of hammering from the other side prompts a smirk. When Crowley opens the door he glimpses nothing but night and eyes beyond as a small figure comprised 80% of mud and twigs barrels through, landing heavily on the floor at his feet. That familiar voice is every bit as full of vitriol as he remembers. "You fucking asshole!"  
It's kinda heart-warming. Crowley smiles. "Hello, sugar. Pleasant vacay?"  
The eyes glaring up at him through a ratted curtain of hair - and oh, those roots: criminal - look capable of burning a hole in his not-soul. "Shove it and swivel, dicksplash."  
"Charmed, I'm sure. No 'hello Crowley'? 'Thank you for rescuing me from Purgatory, Crowley'? No..?"  
"Well excuse my frosty reception, but from where I'm standing,” she struggles to her feet, to illustrate this point, “ _you_ were the one who _sent_ me there, _Crowley_!"  
Crowley pulls a mock-guilty face. "Oops. My bad. Although, in my defence, you _were_ plotting against me..."  
"Oh, please! War is war. More like you were sore 'cause the angel liked me best."  
Crowley purses his lips. Notes how she flinches as he reaches out a hand to pick a twig out of her hair. "Now, let's not get off on the wrong foot shall we? I sent you there, I've brought you back. Even you have to admit that was a kill or be killed situation."  
"I wasn't trying to kill you." Her tone is not entirely convincing, but he'll let it slide.  
"You sided with Lucifer: from where _I'm_ standing it's pretty much the same thing. Do you think ex-kings of Hell get sent to a nice retirement island?"  
"What can I say?" One shoulder lifts in a laconic shrug. "I pick a cause and I stick with it."  
"Same here. My cause just happens to be me."  
"You always were full of yourself." Meg snorts a little laugh, pulling herself up to her full diminutive height and sticking her chin out. She indicates her general sorry state with a circular motion of one hand. "Maybe a little help here, Houdini?"  
Crowley tilts his head, obligingly waves a hand like a maestro conducting an invisible orchestra. "That's better." Smoothing down her newly-clean shirt, she pats at her hair, peers down to check the freshly blonde ends. "Oh, come on - are you kidding me?"  
Crowley shrugs. "What? I sorted your roots out: I'm not even going to charge you extra for the deep-condition."  
"I hate you so hard." She sounds, oddly, like she's trying not to laugh.  
He raises an eyebrow. "But you could still just hug me for fishing you out of Purgatory?"  
"Don't push it." Meg lets out a weary sigh and flops down onto the couch. Crowley considers, then sits at the other end, a seat between them, crossing his legs neatly. "Why'd you really get me out? What do you want, Crowley?" Her head is tilted, gaze bright and shrewd and focused sharply on him. She's definitely wary, but he recognises an air of resignation that's decidedly, uncomfortably, familiar.  
"An apology." The words are barely out before she's on her feet again, laughing bitterly.  
"An apology? What, for _you_ torturing _me_ , killing _me_ , sending _me_ to Purgatory?"  
Crowley sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "I would like to _make_ an apology. To you. I apologise that it was necessary for me to do those things."  
"Oh, you are some new kind of twisted."  
"Meg, sit down, please.” He tries to sound consoling rather than patient. “You have got to see, Lucifer was after me. I had no choice. I may have been a tad heavy handed-" Her derisive snort is loud enough to divert his flow for a second. "But there's no way I could have failed to make an example of anyone who sides against me, and survived."  
"Everything you did to me..."  
"Oh, _please_ , as if you're some blameless little lamb. You had worse on the rack. And it was you or me."  
"You tortured me!"  
"You possessed my boyfriend and killed his dog!"  
"Your _boyfriend_? Wait, _Bobby Singer?!_ "  
Crowley falls silent. This session is suddenly not going quite to plan: that just slipped out, unplanned in quite the same way Meg's execution had been. He opens his mouth for some clever damage limitation, but she's there before him. "Crowley. I'm sorry."  
Crowley falters. Does an honest to goodness double take. "For which part?"  
She rolls her eyes, but her tone actually sounds genuine, if slightly mocking in the way only Meg's honey drawl can be. "For hurting your _boyfriend_ \- which, by the way, adorable. And I... guess I understand why you had it in for me."  
"You'd have done the same."  
"Huh, please." She tosses her newly-blonde hair. "I'd have done _way_ worse."  
"Lucifer did." Crowley closes his eyes, briefly, annoyed at himself - these stupid little confessions that keep slipping past his usually iron-clad defences. She looks at him oddly, just a glance, but she doesn't ask: he exhales a slow breath.  
"So, what now, boss? Does this mean I'm back on your staff?"  
"God, no. I don't want you anywhere near nerve centre."  
"Nerve centre!" She gives a little giggle. "Listen to you, Agent J."  
"That's Agent Jay-Zee to you, darling."  
"What?"  
"Never mind.” He tilts his head, regarding her. It’s funny how time can render you positively affectionate towards your sworn enemies. “You're free to get lost. No hard feelings."  
"No hard feelings.” Her eyes narrow as she smiles. “Don't suppose you could stretch to a glass of the good stuff before I'm on my way?"  
"I'm sure that can be arranged.” He clicks his fingers. Before them on the table, two tumblers of whisky appear, flanking the copper spell bowl. “The angel liked me best, by the way."  
"Yeah, in your dreams," Meg scoffs, holding her glass out for him to clink. ~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone sticking with this one - thank you very much and hope you're enjoying it :)


End file.
